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We sit under tables.
One day break, it will be gone.
This moon river breakfast epiphany masquerading within its moment.
Someone will say a kind word, or we will hear music that stitches our reasons to beat again.
It won't be this morning.
Today's morning is silence and blue-choked cigarette smoke.
Joy will be taken when it comes, as if holding these felt-tip dolls was just Holly Golightly in drag.
It will be taken when it comes, as if holding these felt-tip dolls was just Holly Golightly in drag.
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